Mr. Johnson was one of those teachers you felt bad for. The kids made fun of him. He had a glass eye, he was rather rotund, walked with a limp and talked with a lisp. You wondered how he wound up choosing to teach in middle school, where the children are at an age that evil doers are at their peak.
Then one morning it was all different. It was the only day he pulled his face out of a textbook to meet our eyes.
As he passed cue cards around the room we all looked at each other quizzically. I secretly wondered if he had snapped. If one lazy eye joke went too far. If someone left a mean note and he was seeking revenge. I think I started to sweat as I waited nervously for his next move.
He silently struggled to pull his worn wallet from his back pocket. I felt a twinge that he wasn't getting paid nearly enough for the cruelty of my peers. I wanted to give him my lunch money and flip them all off in his honor. For his bravery of showing up each day.
...So the wallet....He pulled from it a worn out, dog-eared cue card. He proceeded to tell us that once in his English class years ago he wrote on this card all of his dreams. His goals. The places he wanted to see. The things he wanted to accomplish.
He gave us instruction to do the same.
I never forgot that day. I don't think a day in all of my education had nearly the impact. Each of us sat in that little classroom and imagined the walls crumbling as we dared to soar beyond the everyday way of thinking. Beyond the test scores of the week, social drama, gossip, and hairspray.
Mr. Johnson taught my English class. He also taught me to dream.
Why do I keep forgetting about that lesson?
Naturally, I lost the card, but this year I have been thinking about what to put on my new one.
